


A Fell Omen

by rinbunn (wellisntthatshiny)



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game)
Genre: Gen, Some description of injury, a bit of light body horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-14
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:13:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25252927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellisntthatshiny/pseuds/rinbunn
Summary: Omen brings home a stray.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 3





	A Fell Omen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jaybird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaybird/gifts).



> Omen belongs to the light of my life jaybird <3

Omen sets down their pack with a sigh, fishing for the small explosive device that they are fairly certain is still in there. No scorch marks inside, so that’s a good sign. They grasp the end of the fuse, pulling harder on the delicate device than they perhaps should, but hey, in theory it needs a source of ignition before anything really explodes. Prize in hand, they turn to the rustling brush and the figure that had been trailing them for a good ten minutes.

“I know you’re there and I’m fairly certain this will blow up if I light it, so you should probably just come out if you want something or leave if you don’t.”

The figure of a lean tiefling emerges with hesitant movement, his tail flicking with obvious nervousness. He looks as if he must be ill, his skin holding barely any color, and his face is drawn into an anxious frown, a sharp tooth biting his unsettlingly pale lip. His hair moves… wrong is the only word Omen can find for it, the dappled light of the sun through the trees seeming to forget to illuminate the strands. He doesn’t speak, simply staring at Omen, tired, black eyes wide with obvious fright. It takes a moment for Omen to realize that he’s hurt, one hand wrapped around the handle of what seems to be a rapier, and the other clutching a wound at his side. The blood seeping through the fingers seems as foreign as the hair, sluggish and dark in a way that can’t possibly be healthy.

“Are you, uh. Huh. Are you alive?”

The tiefling continues staring for a moment, blinking slowly as if considering the question before nodding.

“Are you sure?”

The tiefling looks down at his hand, pulling it away from the wound with a wince, revealing torn clothing and a vicious, jagged tear in their pale flesh. He nods again, as if seeing the wound was a point in his fate’s favor.

“Huh. You’re weird. And much more interesting than the sap I was collecting -though I do need to get the rest of that before my taps get ruined by those thieving squirrels- hm. Come on. You’re coming with me, weirdo. I have bandages at my house and you’ll probably live until we get there. And writing implements. So you can tell me why you’re like this since you don’t seem to talk.” Omen looks him up and down again. “You’re sure you’re alive? I don’t want some zombie in my house- actually, maybe I do. Might come in handy. Hm.”

They start to drift into thoughts of the uses of undead parts -especially that weird blood- in their experiments before snapping attention back to the tiefling as he moves a step closer.

“That’s the spirit! House isn’t too far from here.”

Despite his silence, their new companion seems to listen to Omen’s chatter as they make their way back through the forest, the route unmarked, but hardly requiring their full attention after making the trek so many times. The weirdo is keeping up shockingly well considering the nasty side wound, and Omen is pleasantly surprised when they make it back in fairly good time. 

They step up to the door and Omen looks down to find their keys, only now realizing they still have the bomb in their hand. They toss it into their bag, pulling out the ring of keys and quickly open the series of locks on their front door.

“Don’t touch anything- got it? It’s dangerous.”

The tiefling nods again, and Omen is beginning to wonder if that’s the only thing he can do -maybe he is some kind of ghoul after all- but they lead the stranger through their door regardless. 

There’s a small entryway with a coat rack containing everything except coats. Beyond that is a living room centered around a lit fireplace, the wood burned down so low it is barely flickering. Omen glances around and becomes immediately, profoundly aware of the many piles of things: raw materials, half finished projects, open books, and empty mugs scattered about the room. 

“Uh, it’s messy. I’m not going to apologize. Lemme clear off the couch.”

They grab a pile of papers, hastily moving them from the soft leather to perch precariously on a stack of books a few feet away. They brush off, well, they aren’t entirely sure what the dark grains are but their best guess is that gunpowder recipe they had altered a few months back but never quite perfected.

“Here. Sit. I’ll grab my stuff.”

There’s a soft thump as the tiefling slumps obediently onto the couch, not quite in control of the movement. He groans softly, the first noise Omen has heard since they found the thing. A stray pad of paper comes with them as they search for the herbalism kit they know they put on top of the fire cabinet in their workshop a few days ago after they burned their arm and they start jotting down notes about their latest find. Eventually the kit is discovered near the sink, still cracked open from where they had set it down after its use, having mixed a poultice with their good hand while running the afflicted arm under water.

When Omen returns to the living room the tiefling looks half passed out on the couch and it occurs to them that maybe he needs water. They set down their notes, joining the pile of similar writings on the counter, left behind as they fill a cup and return with the water and herbalism kit in tow.

“Drink this.” They hand the cup to the tiefling, who accepts it with a shaking hand. The clean one, or cleanish one, Omen notes, the other hand still clutching his side. They kneel, putting the wound at eye level and pull the hand away. They suck a breath through their teeth as they get a good look, the black blood still weird, but there isn’t actually as much as they expected from a wound as deep as this one seems to be. It’s a mess, bits of cloth and forest debris sticking in places one does not want to find such things.

“Yikes, that is not looking good. Gonna have to strip you to clean that out properly or any healing potion will just close that shit right in you. Trust me, I know from experience. You gonna freak if I start removing layers?”

There’s a small shake of the head and the tiefling stretches the hand back out with the cup. Omen takes it, confused for a moment before he starts struggling to remove the thick black cloak, smearing his blood on its clasp. 

“Woah buddy, gimme a sec.” They glance around, setting the cup in a clear spot before turning back to their subject. “Let me help- you’re going to make it worse.”

They stand, gently helping the tiefling shrug off the fine cloak. They toss it on the nearby armchair, leaving it to rest at the top of the mound of their own coats and sweaters. The shirt is trickier, the ripped fabric stuck to the wound and Omen dashes back to the kitchen to dig out a clean rag and a bowl of water. They dab at the shirt, their patient hissing at the sting of the water, but the fabric slowly releases its hold and the two of them work it over the tiefling’s head and horns.

Omen looks him over and lets out a low whistle at the sight of their marred skin.

“You must have one hell of a story with all that.”

There are no other fresh wounds, at least as far as Omen can see, but there is hardly an inch of the guy that doesn’t have the faint trace of injuries long since healed. A sharp, almost surgical looking line from his left shoulder to the bottom right of his rib cage. Teeth and claw marks at his hip, raking down past the still clothed line of his left leg. Slashes and old puncture wounds from dozens of weapons are scattered across his torso and his arms seem to have largely borne the brunt of the brutality. 

His shoulders are criss-crossed with lines, the right one seeming to have a nearly imperceptible divot where flesh should have been. There are indented scars all along his arms, injuries meant to incapacitate that clearly didn’t do their intended duty. His wrists have a similar record, bearing the cuts one would expect from duels where innumerable opponents must have tried very hard to relieve him of his weapons and his hands. 

The tiefling simply looks down, averting his gaze from Omen’s peering eyes.

“Right. Let’s get you fixed up.” 

The next few minutes are a blur as Omen fixates on the wound, pulling tweezers from the kit in addition to various herbs and disinfectants as they remove debris with expert precision. The tiefling is clearly trying not to make noise, but Omen can’t help but feel a pang of sympathy at his stifled whimpers and gasps. They clean the blood -at least they’re fairly certain it’s blood or what passes as blood for him- from the wound, and it’s unnerving that the flesh releases so little of what Omen would normally call blood that they aren’t quite sure they aren’t tending to a corpse.

“Okay now you can drink this.”

They hand the tiefling -is he even paler now? Is that possible?- a health potion from the kit, watching as he swallows, tears beading in his eyes as the flesh begins to knit itself back together. It’s always fascinating to watch, and Omen doesn’t look away until they’re certain the potion has taken its full effect. The wound isn’t completely healed, but it’s good enough that they take the empty potion bottle from his hand and replace it with the water cup. He drinks from it slowly as Omen bandages the wound, practiced fingers having a much easier time on someone else than they normally do with a series of mirrors to guide the same actions on their own body.

“There. You probably won’t die in your sleep now.”

The tiefling gives them a miserable attempt at what Omen is fairly certain is supposed to be a smile and opens his mouth producing the faintest rasp of unintelligible sound before coughing hard enough that his entire body shakes. He takes another sip of water, sitting quietly for a moment before trying again.

“Thank you.”

It’s barely a whisper, but Omen is still shocked by the words.

“Wait, you can talk?”

He nods and takes another sip.

“Well that will make things much easier. Who are you? Why were you in the woods? Where did you come from? Why are you” they gesture at the tiefling’s entire body “like this?”

The apprehension returns to the tiefling’s face, but Omen just stares at him until he begins speaking again.

“My name is Fell.” He swallows, staring down at his white knuckles clutching the cup in his hands. “I was lost. I- I wish I knew. And I, well, I think what you’re asking about is from the Shadowfell? I’m not sure; a lot of stuff is kinda hazy.”

Omen laughs, the sound too bright and reckless for the mood of the room and it startles Fell into spilling water into his lap. 

“What’s life without some memory loss, right? Look, you sleep here and if you don’t die in your sleep or try to kill me -and I will fight back if you do- then you can do a better job telling me about your weird shit in the morning. Oh- I’m Omen by the way. There’s a blanket-“ they reach behind the tiefling to pull a pile of fabric from the back of the couch. “-here. And if you need more water the kitchen is that way. Bathroom is over there, and if you go to any door besides those you’ll probably get yourself blown up. So don’t.”

“Oh, um, okay.”

“Good. Now sleep. You’re about to pass out from a combination of dehydration, blood loss, and who knows what else and I need to go finish my collection which you so rudely interrupted. Granted you’re a much more interesting find than some tree shit but,” they shrug “still need the tree shit.”

Fell is already nearly laying down on the couch and Omen can’t help but laugh that his name seems appropriate as he practically collapses the rest of the way down. He shifts himself into a somewhat more reasonable position, eyes already closed before he even stops moving. Omen waits another few minutes, narrowing their eyes when the tiefling doesn’t seem to breathe, but he moves when they poke at his wound, so he’s probably not dead. Probably. They grab their pack, giving the weirdo one last glance before traipsing back out their door, muttering about lost hours of daylight and how he better not die properly while they’re gone.


End file.
